Amanda Cadabra and The Nightstairs: The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries, #8

By Holly Bell

Delightful! Fun and funny! – International Review of Books

'Kept me guessing until the end.'

 

'A well written story full of mystery, hope , joy and all the things that make her characters "real".'

 

Four strangers, one missing dog and a body. But Sunken Madley is just a quaint, peaceful English village. What does the 1000-year-old ruined priory have to do with it? The answer, as it so often does, lies in the past.

Detective Inspector Trelawney is fast exhausting the normal options. Only covert witch Amanda, with her grumpy feline familiar, has the means to step back 500 years, infiltrate the monastery and discover the truth.

Back they must go a fateful decision to shape history, a murder on hallowed ground and a deadly secret. Will Amanda and Tempest survive the perilous past and help solve the mystery in the present, before the killer strikes again?

The International Review of Books:

Delightful! Fun and funny! This is my first experience with Holly Bell, and as a dog person, I never thought I'd fall so deeply in love with a cat (Tempest). I honestly could NOT get enough of him!! The entire story is fun though, a wonderfully clean mystery packed with danger, intrigue, and (yes) murders. I was enchanted--a very fitting emotion for a quaint and often hilarious journey with a lovable witch and her even more lovable familiar.

 

You'll love this winning paranormal mystery if you're a fan of cozies, urban fantasy or a ghost story with just the right amount of tension. Get it now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Holly Bell
• Release date: Nov 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798223019336

Book preview

Other books by Holly Bell

Amanda Cadabra and The Hidey-Hole Truth (The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries Book 1) (Standard and Large Print)

Amanda Cadabra and The Cellar of Secrets (The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries Book 2)

Amanda Cadabra and The Flawless Plan (The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries Book 3)

Amanda Cadabra and The Rise of Sunken Madley (The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries Book 4)

Amanda Cadabra and The Hidden Depths (The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries Book 5)

Amanda Cadabra and The Strange Case of Lucy Penlowr (The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries Book 6)

Amanda Cadabra and The Hanging Tree (The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries Book 7)

Amanda Cadabra and The Nightstairs (The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries Book 8)

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Amanda Cadabra and The Hidey-Hole Truth (The Amanda Cadabra Cozy Paranormal Mysteries Book 1

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Want to read more about Tempest the Cat? Get the FREE short story prequel to Amanda Cadabra and The Hidey-Hole Truth at https://amandacadabra.com/free-story-tempest/

Copyright © Holly Bell (2022). All rights reserved.

www.amandacadabra.com

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, people or places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, places or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Cover art by Daniel Becerril Ureña

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To Steve and Leanne

Magic

is always pushing and drawing

and making things out of nothing.

Everything is made out of magic ...

So it must be all around us.

– Frances Hodgson Burnett

New AC1 map V12 rotate from Correct map AC4 Book 4 Nov 2019.jpgPriory plan V2 adding labels.jpgMap of South England for AC8 and Table Plan.jpg

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: A Grand Opening

Chapter 2: Amanda Rises to the Occasion

Chapter 3: The Corner Shop

Chapter 4: Janet Oglethorpe

Chapter 5: Amanda’s First Day, and Edward Nightingale

Chapter 6: Finley

Chapter 7: Tempest’s Plan, and Fire Alert

Chapter 8: A Smoking Stall

Chapter 9: Thomas Does His Thing

Chapter 10: Harsh, Lunch with Mother, and No Picnic for Amanda

Chapter 11: Sharon and Gary

Chapter 12: Ellie Gives the Inside Track

Chapter 13: Intelligence HQ

Chapter 14: The Walker

Chapter 15: A Warm Reception

Chapter 16: The Sleeper

Chapter 17: The Reader

Chapter 18: A Division of Labour

Chapter 19: Dumb Blondes, Mrs Vine, and Erik

Chapter 20: Desecration

Chapter 21: Janet Just Wants

Chapter 22: The Big Tease, Beards, and Temptation

Chapter 23: The Curate

Chapter 24: Ordinary People

Chapter 25: Amber

Chapter 26: At The Naughty Prawn, and Humpy

Chapter 27: The Wisdom of Claire

Chapter 28: Nick

Chapter 29: The Chancer

Chapter 30: Ask Me Anything

Chapter 31: Recap, Recall, and The Sword of Damocles

Chapter 32: Matty

Chapter 33: Memories, and Thomas’s Perturbation

Chapter 34: Another Body

Chapter 35: A Tentative Suggestion

Chapter 36: Linnie

Chapter 37: History Lesson

Chapter 38: A Dangerous Habit

Chapter 39: Hiller and Humpy, and Lost and Found

Chapter 40: Woodie’s Pedigree, The Museum, and Pressure Point

Chapter 41: The Glass

Chapter 42: The Wisdom of Aunt Amelia

Chapter 43: Covert Preparations

Chapter 44: The Prop

Chapter 45: Beyond The Gate

Chapter 46: The Cloister

Chapter 47: The Refectory

Chapter 48: The Study

Chapter 49: The Guest Chamber

Chapter 50: The Night

Chapter 51: Retreat

Chapter 52: A Change of Habit

Chapter 53: Jane is Alarmed

Chapter 54: Pressure Points

Chapter 55: Wait Until Dawn

Chapter 56: Confession

Chapter 57: Defiler

Chapter 58: The Letter

Chapter 59: The Nightstairs

Chapter 60: The Cloister and The Hearth

Chapter 61: The Bait

Chapter 62: The Pieces

Chapter 63: Armed

Chapter 64: The Road To Ruin

Chapter 65: Baker Steps In, and Amanda Owns Up

Chapter 66: The Burning Question

Chapter 67: Family Time

Chapter 68: Potential, and Aunt Amelia’s Warning

Chapter 69: The Party

Chapter 70: The Brains Behind The Operation

Chapter 71: Who Told The Bishop?

Chapter 72: Treasure

Chapter 73: The Judgement of Wallace

Chapter 74: The Wisdom of Humpy, and a Present for Amanda

Chapter 75: Amanda’s List, and Tempest Solves Two Mysteries

Chapter 76: Amanda’s Theory, and Questions Old and New

––––––––

Author’s Note

About the Author

Acknowledgments

About the Language Used in the Story

Questions for Reading Clubs

Glossary of British English

Accents and Wicc’hudol

The Last Word ... For Now

Introduction

Please note that to enhance the reader’s experience of Amanda's world, this British-set story, by a British author, uses British English spelling, vocabulary, grammar and usage, and includes local and foreign accents, dialects and a magical language that vary from different versions of English as it is written and spoken in other parts of our wonderful, diverse world.

For your reading pleasure, there is a glossary of British English usage and vocabulary at the end of the book, followed by a note about accents and the magical language, Wicc’yeth.

Chapter 1

A Grand Opening

It was a blissfully sunny August Sunday, and, as the villagers expected, Amanda Cadabra and her irascible feline companion were making their way towards their favourite picnic spot. Jonathan, the dazzlingly handsome but incurably shy assistant librarian, had raised a hand in greeting as they’d passed.

Witch and familiar took the slope up towards their goal at a gentle pace; Amanda because exertion was no friend to her asthma; Tempest because he believed that ‘rush’ was a speed reserved for extreme emergencies, but otherwise for peasants. He sniffed delicately in the direction of the picnic basket.

Amanda chuckled.

‘Can you really smell ham through the container? It has a tight lid. Not that lids or locks have ever held you back, Mr Fuffy-wuffy. Well, you won’t have to wait much longer for lunch.’

Their goal was in sight. The one-thousand-year-old priory, long since an unremarkable ruin, lay on the northern edge of the peaceful English village of Sunken Madley. It was situated just before the last of the habitations gave way to the trees of old Madley Wood. Years ago, Amanda had illicitly, but very discreetly, used some magic to erect a platform on what remained of a portion of the upper floor. They would visit on fine Sundays, Amanda to think and Tempest to survey his kingdom and ... eat.

But today, today was going to be different. Amanda felt it before she saw it, saw it in the shadows.

She stopped a few yards away, staring towards the ground.

‘Oh, Tempest. Oh no .... Not here ... please, let it not be ... here.’

SEVERAL DAYS EARLIER, Detective Inspector Thomas Trelawney of the Devon and Cornwall Police, and now also of the London Metropolitan Police, was standing in his new office. It was strongly redolent of fresh paint and new carpet.

The office, together with his flat, occupied part of the ground floor of The Elms, one of the largest and oldest establishments of Sunken Madley. The village, still rural in spirit, was pleasantly situated just three miles south of the Hertfordshire border and 13 miles north of the Houses of Parliament. It was rather different from his Cornish coastal home town of Parhayle, but all in all, Trelawney was happy to be here.

Having looked around the room, he turned his hazel eyes toward Bryan Branscombe, the village builder, and smiled.

‘You’ve done wonders, Mr Branscombe.’

‘Thank you, Inspector. Very nice of you to say so.’ Bryan pushed his hands more deeply into the pockets of his light grey overalls and gazed at the carpet to hide a blush.

He was still getting used to accepting compliments. Bryan looked up again, at a slight angle, being somewhat shorter than Trelawney’s six feet. ‘Sorry about the delays,’ he said for the umpteenth time. ‘But the gas explosion at the Puttenhams left them without a kitchen, so I couldn’t leave them, and then I had to sort out the plumbing at Pipkin Acres. It’s a residential home, after all.’

‘That’s quite all right. I’ve been busy with various things back in Cornwall myself, and I believe Miss Cadabra has had a few rush jobs on. But here we are now, and I can see it’s been well worth the wait.’

‘Thank you, Inspector. Here, would you like to check the facilities?’

Thomas had already been shown the milestones in the refurbishments of his new flat and office as they’d been reached. However, this had something of the air of a grand opening, albeit with just the two of them.

Bryan had cleverly made the small loo appear to be part of the stretch of cupboards that ran from the right-hand edge of that essential room to the end of the wall opposite where the desk would be. That centrepiece of furniture was to be set in front of the attractive bay window, with the door to the hallway of The Elms on the left and the entrance to Thomas’s new flat to the right. The woodwork was painted matt white; the walls were mushroom, and the carpet a warm beige. Pleasant, welcoming and serviceable.

‘The desk will be over this afternoon,’ Bryan told him, ‘as soon as Miss Cadabra has finished with it. I’ll bring it over.’

‘Thank you, Bryan. I don’t know how you managed to get it to her workshop.’ A generous present at the end of the last case and something of an heirloom, it was a gift from Miss Armstrong-Witworth of The Grange. A handsome Victorian partner desk, it was furniture crafted to last and, thought Thomas, must weigh a considerable amount.

‘Oh, that’s all right, Inspector. All part of the service. Moffat helped me get it onto the van to take to Miss Cadabra. You wouldn’t think a man his age could be that strong. Must be one of them bodybuilders in his spare time! Iskender –'

‘– who owns the kebab shop?' checked Trelawney, who was still getting to know the village.

'That's right. Gave me a hand the other end, and then Marcus, your neighbour, will help me get it back here.’

‘But I can –’

‘No, no, Marcus says he wants to do it. What with you sorting out that business and clearing his name as a suspect and all.’

‘Most kind. You must let me give –’

‘No, Inspector, that’s quite all right. Mrs James takes care of all that. But I wouldn’t say no to a jar down the Sinner’s when we’re both free.’

‘You’re on.’

‘Did I hear my name spoken?’ asked Irene, knocking on the office door that gave onto the hall.

‘But not in vain, I assure you. Do come in, Mrs James,’ called Trelawney.

‘Thank you, Inspector.’ His new landlady trod lithely into the room and turned her head, adorned with short blonde hair, towards her builder, ‘All done then, Bryan?’

‘All done, Mrs James. Just the desk arriving soon, and I expect Miss Cadabra told you, Inspector, she’s waiting on the staining of your coffee table for the sitting room until you’ve seen the colour of the leather on the desk. So the two echo, as they say, in different parts of the flat.’

‘Of course, Amanda told the inspector,’ said Irene, smiling at Thomas and briefly laying a maternal hand on his grey-suit-jacketed arm. ‘It’s all absolutely splendid, Bryan. What about the flat?’

‘Perfect,’ said Trelawney.

‘Good, good. Well, Bryan, I think you deserve a bonus.’

‘Very kind of you, Mrs James.’ Then, nodding brightly at Trelawney, ‘You and Miss Cadabra can start work then.’

‘Not yet,’ stated Irene firmly. ‘The paintwork and carpet need airing for at least three days, I’d say. They’ll be no friend to her asthma else. Is the paint on the window frames dry, Bryan?’

‘Yes, completely.’

‘Well then, with your permission, Inspector, if you’re going to be here for a while ...?’

Irene began to open all of the windows, top and bottom. ‘Ah, yes, good idea,’ Thomas approved. He went into his flat through the door at the right-hand end of the office and opened the entrance to the side passage that ran between the house and the annexe, which he knew all too well. He opened the kitchen windows and the French windows giving on to the extensive garden, with its distinctive avenue of elms that gave the house its name and had featured so significantly in the last case. The memory flickered through Thomas’s mind before being recalled to the present by the voice of approval from Irene:

‘That’ll get a good through draft.’

‘Three days?’ Trelawney checked. ‘For all of the chemical odours to dissipate?’

‘Yes. Then,’ advised Irene, ‘ask Amanda to come and try it.’

Chapter 2

Amanda Rises To The Occasion

Amanda, meanwhile, in the furniture restoration workshop bequeathed to her by Perran, her grandfather and mentor, was trying something rather more challenging.

‘Well done, bian,’ said Perran, addressing Amanda by his pet name for her since birth, the Cornish word for baby. He, her grandfather, was, strictly speaking and in vulgar parlance, dead, like his wife, Senara. Amanda, however, knew better than to use such a word, but instead described them, as she had been taught, as ‘transitioned’: to another plane of existence, that was. It was one, as far as Amanda could judge, that seemed to be a whirl of cocktail parties, excursions to exotic locations, and luncheons with disconcertingly legendary figures from history.

Right now, however, they were engaged in assisting their granddaughter with her magical skills. The scene was being regarded with a mixture of ennui and amusement by Tempest, a permanently grumpy feline in a furry collection of storm greys, out of which glowed two yellow eyes.

He might have been regarded as Amanda’s familiar. Tempest would have corrected this misapprehension as Amanda was, in his view, his pet and cumbersome charge for whom he would have only grudgingly admitted a certain affection. To Trelawney, he was a malevolent creature of, no doubt, disreputable provenance. By contrast, to his adoring witch, Tempest was Mr Fluffykins and other names that denoted to their object how utterly he had her wound around his little finger.

Tempest occasionally paused in his observance of Amanda’s endeavours to exchange glances of cordial dislike with Granny. Both Senara and Perran had been responsible for casting the complicated and dangerous enchantment, late one night in the workshop, that had reincarnated him. But it was Granny on whom he pinned the unforgivable charge. Neither the years nor her transition had dimmed their mutual disregard for one another. Granny, naturally, knew precisely who and what he was, as did Perran and Mrs Sharma. However, in spite of Amanda’s careful enquiries, no one was telling.

‘I can see your progress,’ commended Grandpa, his accent flavoured by his Cornish origins. ’You’re holding the handles more loosely now.’

‘Yes,’ replied Amanda, who, dressed in her green boiler suit, was kneeling on an old door on the floor. ‘I think,’ she added hesitantly, pinning back up the untidy plait of mouse-brown hair that had flopped down onto her shoulders, ‘I might try letting go. But you’ll steady it if I ...?’

‘Of course, pet.’

Amanda had screwed in four handles, one along each edge of the door. Facing a short edge, she gripped the ones on either side of her, took a deep breath and focused. She said softly:

‘Aereval’

The door lifted slightly from the floor with only the tiniest of wobbles. Amanda took it up six inches then, relaxing her hold on the handles, slowly and carefully released them. She gradually lifted her arms, feeling the thrill of being airborne.

‘Look, Grandpa! Look, no hands! – Oh!’

It must have been the loss of focus that allowed the door to tip and slide her forward. Her eyes flew open. Her hands reached back frantically for the handles as Perran lifted a finger and steadied, then lowered, the makeshift vehicle.

‘Phew! Thank you, Grandpa.’

‘You’re all right, bian,’ he soothed.

‘Splendid effort, Amanda dear,’ Granny encouraged her. ‘I suspect you are somewhat distracted.’

‘I am?’

‘You are expecting a telephone communication, are you not?’

‘Oh,’ Amanda returned airily, ‘yes, the inspector did say that the office might be ready today for us to begin work officially. The furniture restoration has to come first, though, except in ... well, pressing circumstances.’

‘But both your new position as consultant to the inspector and your day job are dependent on your developing your abilities as village witch, however secret that office must remain.’

‘Yes, Granny.’

‘And you’re coming along nicely, bian,’ assured Grandpa, from whom she had inherited her particular magical gift: levitation.

It was the hallmark of the Cadabras, a farming clan on Bodmin Moor, from whom Perran had apparently become estranged on the day he had eloped with Senara of the witch-clan Cardiubarn. Amanda found the story adorably romantic. Granny had bequeathed her another skill set, which had been extraordinarily useful. But it had equally got Amanda into a great deal of trouble and nearly brought destruction upon the village. For the Cardiubarns were spell-weavers.

If her grandparents’ lessons since she was six hadn’t sunk in, Amanda certainly knew it now: magic was a serious business. It was to be used sparingly, absolutely not in the sight of Normals – non-witches – and never, ever upon humans themselves.

There was a whole list of dos and don’ts that Amanda had learned over the years. Amanda liked rules. You knew where you were with a good rule. But then ... there were times when ....

Chapter 3

The Corner Shop

MAGIC PRACTICE OVER with, Tempest had made it patently obvious that the fridge was lacking in Devon double cream, his latest whim.

‘It’s on the list.’ Amanda waved towards the notice board near the kitchen door that led to the hallway.

The relevance of this statement was lost on Tempest. His voice sounded, as usual, clearly in her head:

The word is on the list; the cream is elsewhere.

‘Fine,’ she sighed. A visit to the hub of the village was clearly called for before Amanda could start on the inspector’s coffee table, which was to be stripped and sanded prior to applying the new stain. 

Five minutes later, Tempest was leading the way to The Corner Shop from the racing-green Vauxhall Astra. This had been bequeathed to Amanda by Perran, together with the business, and bore the legend in gold down each side:

Cadabra Furniture Restoration and Repairs

Amanda heard Joan the postlady say, as she pushed open the shop door with its characteristic:

Ding!

‘Well, I don’t know. Seemed nice enough from her letter. Hello, dear!’ she interrupted herself, leading the chorus of greetings from the assembled company.

‘We was just talkin’ about a visitor, dearie,' explained Sylvia, the eighty-something lollipop lady. Her staff of office, a round ‘Stop’ sign on a pole used for arresting traffic and allowing the school children to traverse the road safely, gave her job its name. Currently, it was leaning in a nook behind the shop door. ‘Joan’s long lost somethin’-or-another ’as turned up.’

‘Oh, that’s nice,’ Amanda replied politely, who had difficulty with the idea of family ties. ‘Erm ... is it?’

‘That’s what we’re wondering,’ put in Dennis Hanley-Page – dashing septuagenarian and owner of Vintage Vehicles – whose zest for life was undimmed by the mere passing of years. ‘Some sort of second cousin?’

‘Yes,’ answered the curvaceous Joan, pushing a stray blonde curl off her face. ‘Said she was investigating her family tree, and I turned up. Said since losing her parents, it’s suddenly become important to her, and so she reached out. Offered to stay at one of the pubs but, well, I don’t know, somehow the way she put it ... I feel I must put her up, really.’

‘She might be very nice, and you two could hit it off,’ came the voice of Nalini, her willowy form approaching from the mysterious back of the shop. She reached below the counter, extracted a gourmet treat from a packet, laid it on a paper napkin, and ceremoniously handed it over to Amanda. She, in turn, placed it on the floor in front of Tempest, waiting at her feet for his tribute. He and Mrs Sharma exchanged glances that only they understood, and Tempest sampled the delicacy. Their unfathomable relationship had been the same from Day One and had always mystified Amanda. Tempest’s list of humans for which he had a measure of respect was a singularly short one.

‘Well, I must just wait and see, I suppose,’ responded Joan philosophically.

‘Your grandmother’s cousin’s daughter’s niece, did you say?’ enquired Dennis.

‘So she says, or something like that, but my grandfather’s cousin passed, so I can’t ask him.’

‘Might be that ’e didn’t know about the daughter if you know what I mean,’ Sylvia hazarded, with a gentle suggestive nudge of her friend’s arm.

‘That did cross my mind,’ agreed Joan cheerfully.

Ding!

The door opened to admit Mrs Yarkly, who nodded a greeting to the occupants of the shop. They duly responded. Mrs Yarkly was known throughout the village as a woman whose delicacy regarding certain matters was of heroic proportions. She was, however, an individual whom Amanda rarely encountered and, therefore, whose face had long since been forgotten. 

‘Just crackers, thank you, Mrs Sharma. I’ve been having an unfortunate,’ she lowered her voice so that her final words were barely audible, ‘Bathroom Experience.’

‘Oh dear,’ sympathised Amanda. ‘Tiles falling off the walls? That can happen, especially with poor-quality adhesive or grout. Of course, that can also simply lose its integrity with age. Or, you could be right: it could be too wet if they’re new, but I don’t think ground-up crackers will be the best ....’

Mrs Yarkly was frowning. That was one of the few expressions Amanda recognised, and she paused to ask, ‘Are you all right, Mrs Yarkly?’

‘No. Not that sort of bathroom experience, girl.’ Holding her right hand at shoulder-level, with a flick of her index finger, she pointed discreetly and briefly towards her lower abdomen.

‘Ah, a ... a digestive issue,’ Amanda correctly inferred.

‘Precisely.’

‘Oh dearie,’ intervened Sylvia, ‘you want to pop along to Mr Sharma, the chemist, then. ’E’ll give you just the thing: clear up a loose stool in minutes.’

Mrs Yarkly was affronted.

‘There is nothing amiss with my furniture. I’m sure it isn’t the way I’ve been sitting. Besides, isn’t that more your department?’ she asked, turning to Amanda, now struggling to maintain her countenance with a suitably grave expression. She was rescued by Nalini, who intervened smoothly with,

‘Here are your crackers, Mrs Yarkly. We wish you a speedy recovery from your indisposition. And I’m sure my husband would be more than happy to assist you.’

‘Thank you. And, Miss Cadabra, I saw that my sister’s extremely valuable antique cabinet isn’t repaired yet.’

‘It’s on my list.’

‘You do know our aunt works for Trading Standards?’

‘I’ll get there as soon as I can,’ Amanda promised meekly.

As Mrs Yarkly departed, another was arriving who would easily have been a match for the truculent lady. Through the open door could be heard the peremptory call of:

‘Churchill! Heel.’ This heralded the entrance of Miss Cynthia de Havillande of The Grange, a tall and impressive figure and the oldest and most venerable resident of Sunken Madley. The aged terrier, named after the late prime minister, looked around cautiously for Tempest, saw he was distracted by a delicacy and settled happily behind his mistress’s ankles.

‘Good day to you all,’ Miss de Havillande wished the assembled company warmly, to which they responded with equal geniality. ‘I can’t stay. A pint of milk, if you would, Nalini; I promised Moffat I would bring one. He is making scones. Regarding the next ball, to wait until the autumn Feast of St Ursula of the Apples seems to me to be too long a delay. However, we shall be thin of company, so I propose a party on the last Saturday in August, to mark the end of astronomical summer. Or is it meteorological?’

‘Meteorological, Cynthia,’ supplied Nalini with a smile.

‘Thank you, my dear. Yes, to mark the end of meteorological summer.’

A chorus of approval greeted this offering.

‘Splendid. Amanda, no preparation need be made on the ballroom; it shall be held in the large salon. Although it is not a formal ball, gentlemen shall be expected to attend in jacket and tie and ladies in some sort of evening-appropriate-wear. Perhaps you would be good enough to spread the word.’

‘Lovely,’ approved Sylvia.

‘No problem there,’ responded Dennis.

‘Yes, I’ll let people know on my rounds,’ promised Joan.

‘And Dennis,’ Miss de Havillande addressed him peremptorily, ‘if you must drive one of your deathtraps to the party, perhaps you could approach at a reasonable speed and not send the gravel on the drive flying into orbit when you skid to an uncontrolled halt.’

Mr Hanley-Page grinned.

‘Don’t worry, Cynthia, I know that pre-historic Range Rover of yours can’t manage any but the smoothest surface.’

‘Hmph!’ There was an ongoing vehicular feud of long-standing between the neighbours. It was no more than skin deep, and this was Cynthia’s way of acknowledging a hit.

Having paid for her milk and bade the throng farewell, Miss de Havillande exited with the inevitable call of:

‘Churchill! Heel!’

Chapter 4

Janet Oglethorpe

JANET OGLETHORPE, SOME two hundred miles to the north of The Corner Shop, neatly folded her dressing gown onto the ordered pile of clothes and toiletries and pulled down the lid of her wheelie suitcase. She called, in a Yorkshire accent, to her husband, for the third time,

‘You sure you’ll be all right without me? Don’t answer. You’ll exert y’self.’ She closed the bag, put the padlock in place, and hauled it out of the bedroom of number 18 Bardsey Lane, Wigworth End, and down the stairs.

‘Aye, love, I’ll be reet as rain,’ came the patient response.

‘You won’t ‘ave me t’ do fer yer. Since y’ heart, I’ve ’ad to do all around ’ere. It all falls on me. Me that ‘as all the responsibility I ’ave.’

‘Aye, love.’

Janet came into the sitting room, where Keith Oglethorpe was comfortably disposed on the sofa, with his hands clasped behind his head. It still bore its enduring thatch of strawberry blond hair that she’d noticed at their first meeting.

‘Feet off table. How many times ’ave I got to tell yer?’

‘It’s not like we eat off it, lass,’ he responded good-naturedly with his automatic reply.

‘And put that thing away, poisoning y’self, and what with yer ’eart.’

‘It’s just a tad of flavoured air.’ Keith hid the vape pipe his daughter had bought him for Christmas. He’d given up smoking as per doctor’s orders, and Linnie had given him a rather grand Meerschaum-looking device and some nicotine-flavoured e-juice to go with it. ‘I’ve told yer, love, it’s perfectly safe. The juice is food standards; yer could put it in a cake and eat t’ ingredients. Probably do yer less ’arm than all that sugar yer put in yer tea and all them biscuits.’ 

‘I need me energy. With all I ’ave to do. It all falls on me now.’

‘I’m well on t’ mend,’ Keith soothed. He looked at her, wondering, as he so often did, what had become of the soft, round, pretty girl he’d married. Over the years, she’d become harder and thinner and, well ... harder. They had met at a dance. He’d seen her at once, all off-the-shoulder ruffles and big hair. Now her brown coiffure was close-cropped: ‘sensible’.

Janet Oglethorpe, she was then, and they found they were distantly related. They had lived near his family home until it had passed into Keith’s hands. It had been with the Oglethorpes for hundreds of years, starting off as a decent-sized dwelling for the time but growing to accommodate the needs of the occupants. And then, of course, they’d done the side extension where Freddie and his mate had a room and ensuite shared throughout university. Bit older than Freddie. A late bloomer. He was a nice chap. Bit of a chip on his shoulder, but then who hadn’t? Had Freddie kept in touch with him still? All the way down there in